Traffyck (36 page)

Sunday night several events confirmed Smirnov’s certainty that a covert arm of a powerful organization was after Nagy. First, Nagy returned from Kharkiv on the express train shortly after two men were found dead at Kharkiv’s Shevchenko Monument. Next, a cell phone found on one of the men had been used to call Nagy at Mariya Nemeth’s apartment. Finally, a known Kiev informant was murdered, and Nagy and Mariya Nemeth found it necessary to disappear.

If Smirnov could speak with Nagy, he might convince Nagy and Mariya Nemeth to cooperate. He could offer protection at the Kiev SBU office. He could ask Nagy what kind of investigation had caused someone to become so desperate they would kill men he had contacted. He could try to match up the many loose ends he knew must be related.

Kidnapped children and child pornography; Ivan Babii dead in Romania; Maxim Vakhabov, a trafficker and murderer from Uzbekistan, missing; the calling card of Opus Dei left at the abortion clinic death scene; the bombing of Nagy’s office—all of this must be related. Yet, there was another piece to Smirnov’s puzzle. This piece hovered several flights above his head in this very building. His superior, SBU Deputy Anatoly Lyashko.

Smirnov had lost respect for Lyashko after he’d become SBU deputy. Even though Lyashko came from the field, agents speculated he had his own political agenda, his own backdoor staff—a group of agents funded privately through another organization—or even by Russians. Because of this speculation, Smirnov, along with his colleagues in other cities, feared much of the information fed to Lyashko was being used for purposes they might or might not agree with.

For all of these reasons, Smirnov had delayed his call to Lyashko. But he could delay no longer. He tried the inside line, and Lyashko was not in. But this would be no excuse. He had been reprimanded in the past for holding back critical information. So Smirnov picked up the phone that would give him a scrambled outside line and called Lyashko’s apartment here in Kiev.

It was a warm September afternoon in Kiev, a bright sun shining overhead. During the Day of the Entrepreneur holiday created following independence, many had crowded Independence Square to celebrate with food, drink, and a market for new products and ideas. But today, heat reflecting off the stone floor of the square forced most to seek shaded areas.

At lunchtime, on Hrushevskovo Boulevard, two men exited their government office building and stood waiting for a break in traffic so they could cross. One man was tall, the other short. They both wore dark blue slacks, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and striped ties. They carried lunch bags and stared at the passing traffic.

“How did you celebrate the Day of the Entrepreneur?” asked the tall man.

The short man smiled. “A female companion and I invented several new positions.”

Both laughed as they looked back and forth at the passing traffic.

“You celebrated the day wisely,” said the tall man. “Ukraine invented the Day of the Entrepreneur at the beginning of September to mimic America’s Labor Day. So I suppose your celebration further enhances Ukraine’s westernization.”

“Absolutely. My female companion even mentioned the idea of creating an online video. She will wear cowboy boots. What could be more Western?

Both laughed again, thought they saw a break in traffic, stepped off the curb, but quickly stepped back when a BMW roared past.

“Lyashko had a BMW like that,” said the tall man. “Now he has a Bentley. I suppose fighting organized crime requires a fortress vehicle. By the way, has he been in the office today? Or is he celebrating somewhere with a woman?”

“I
hope
he is celebrating with a woman.”

The tall man laughed, but became serious. “Are you concerned about his mental state?”

“I’m concerned about all the contacts from outside organizations, everything from US Homeland Security to La Strada. Do you know what this is about?”

The tall man did not answer, because there was a break in traffic, and they ran across the boulevard into a nearby park. Once out of the sun, they did not laugh and joke but stared at the grass as they spoke, occasionally shaking their heads. Finally, they sat on the grass, opened their bag lunches, and began eating slowly and seriously without speaking, exactly like prisoners at mealtime. In the distance, children on playground equipment shrieked with delight, but even this did not bring the two men, who had so recently joked with one another, out of their gloom.

The drapes in the small bedroom were thick, a lamp was lit on the bedside table, and a teenaged boy lay on his back on the bed. It was difficult placing the boy’s exact age. He was thin, with an almost girlish figure, his shoulder bones prominent. He wore black bikini briefs over his bulging penis. On his feet was a pair of unlaced men’s black leather shoes.

SBU Deputy Anatoly Lyashko, wearing only his under-shorts, was stooped at the foot of the bed. He had just put his shoes on the boy’s feet and was smiling insanely.

Lyashko was muscular, hairy, and fifty-eight years old. The hair on his head was jet black. The hair on his body was going gray. Lyashko felt giddy, young, and warm, as if he were in a Moscow steam bath back in Soviet days. While they had undressed, he’d smoked cigarettes while the boy smoked rocks of cocaine provided by the messenger who’d delivered the boy. Lyashko wondered if the second-hand smoke from the cocaine had affected him. For a moment, he wondered if he should try the cocaine, but quickly dismissed the thought.

Lyashko reached out onto the bed and grasped the soles of his own shoes on the boy’s feet. He slowly spread the boy’s legs. As he did this, the expression on the boy’s face remained unchanged. The boy had the look of someone trying to decide whether to go on living. Lyashko avoided looking at the boy’s face. He looked instead between the boy’s legs.

Suddenly the phone rang, breaking the spell, reminding Lyashko of the real world, of his grip on his briefcase handle during his wife’s goodbye kiss. As if operating a giant set of shears, Lyashko swung the boy’s legs closed, stood, and went to the phone on the dresser. In the mirror, before answering the phone, he could see the boy looking at him sadly.

He picked up the phone. “Lyashko here.”

“Good morning. This is Agent Yuri Smirnov at the office.”

Lyashko spoke gruffly. “I’m working here today, and I am busy. What do you want?”

“You asked to be informed as soon as I obtained information on the video store burning.”

“Go on.”

“It is not good. I had men watching Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth Sunday night, and we lost them. They have not returned to the apartment. I think they have gone into hiding.”

“And you wait until now to tell me?” said Lyashko, raising his voice.

“I thought we would have located them with phone surveillance. I just received details for last week that might be related.”

Smirnov read the report aloud. Janos Nagy had called several adult video stores, and the members of a parent group headed by the La Strada woman. His cell phone was traced to a traveler’s camp and several other locations around Kiev.

“I assume you checked the traveler’s camp?”

“Yes. The owner never saw Nagy. She said many travelers come and go without her seeing them because they register themselves and leave the fee in a slot at the office.”

“What do you think Nagy is up to?” asked Lyashko, forcing himself to speak calmly.

“I believe he is taking over Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved’s case.”

Lyashko purposely paused before he said, “Who is Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved?”

“He is the investigator who died in the video store fire. The one who originally worked for the parents of missing children.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lyashko. “I remember.”

“What concerns me,” said Smirnov, “is that there seems no reason for Nagy to disappear unless he thinks his and Mariya Nemeth’s lives are in danger. I have begun to wonder if they might have been kidnapped.”

“Why?”

“Because yesterday an Opus Dei representative named Mikhail Juliano visited me,” said Smirnov. “He was very interested in Nagy. He said he was concerned about a link between Nagy and the Vatican being perpetrated by Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza. He even mentioned the Mafia and La Strada.”

“I can understand his concern,” said Lyashko glancing toward the boy on the bed.

“It was obvious Juliano thinks I’m holding back information.”

Lyashko chuckled, “It is an old ploy, Yuri. I’ve had dealings with Opus Dei. They think you are in one of their fucking confessional booths one minute, and the next minute they are like the Milan Mafia or the old P2. You cannot trust them. I would keep watch on this Juliano. He may lead you to Nagy. You must find Nagy. Let me know the moment you do. I expect timely reporting next time. You might also keep watch on the La Strada woman, Eva Polenkaya.”

“I understand,” said Smirnov.

“One more thing,” said Lyashko. “Did you call Rogoza?”

“Yes, I called him. He said he was glad the SBU was watching Nagy.”

After Lyashko hung up the phone, he gripped the edge of the dresser for a moment, staring at himself in the mirror. Then he looked sideways toward the reflection of the boy on the bed. The boy smiled and, although Lyashko knew the smile was not sincere, he smiled back and decided to delay the call he knew he must make.

SBU Deputy Anatoly Lyashko, head of Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime, resumed his position at the foot of the bed. He grasped the soles of his shoes that were still on the boy’s feet, and slowly spread the boy’s legs. As he did this, he suddenly sounded gentle, crooning to the boy, “Now, now. Now, now.”

When Lyashko looked at the clock, he saw the ritual, practiced daily for the last week, had again consumed forty-five minutes. After his breathing returned to normal, Lyashko went into the bathroom and closed the door. He picked up his briefcase, opened it, and took out his automatic pistol. He released the safety, palmed the automatic, and held the pistol to his temple.

Lyashko stood before the mirror looking at himself and at the pistol he held to his head. The expression on his face reminded him of a caricature of a trafficker on one of the La Strada leaflets handed out to street urchins in Kiev. After a minute, Lyashko put away the pistol, washed his hands and face, went out to the bedroom, and put on his shorts. Then he went to the phone, entered a number and a code, and requested a scrambled line.

“Pyotr, this is Anatoly.”

“Anatoly, I’m sorry you cannot be here. I’m in the midst of preparing a lecture. It is a blessed cool day in the woods. How is the weather there?”

“Hot,” said Lyashko. “Are you alone?”

“Ivan was here for lunch, but he is gone.”

“The Gypsy vanished and is on Shved’s trail. Opus Dei is also becoming meddlesome.”

“Papist pigs,” said Pyotr, angrily. “As for the Gypsy, Shved’s trail before he made his funeral trip back to Kiev should be warm enough for your men. Shved was southwest of Odessa, near the Romanian border outside the city of Kilija. Based on information from the third apex of our troika on how the Gypsy operates, I am certain it will not be long before he is there.”